


Home For The Holiday

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Cannibalism, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Murder Husbands, Thanksgiving Dinner, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5287244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a lot to be thankful for this year. Geoff prepares an elaborate meal for Michael and Ryan to show his gratitude. (Takes place in The Recipe cannibal AU).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home For The Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, ya'll!   
> Put on some smooth jazz, load your plate with leftovers, and read on.

The thought hits Geoff randomly over dinner in late October and he’s opened his mouth before considering the impulse beyond the surface level.

“Let’s skip turkey for Thanksgiving,” he says. “And let’s stay here -- just the three of us.”

There’s a smile across Michael’s face before Ryan can even react.

“Yeah?” Michael asks. The youngest of the trio looks between Geoff’s face and Ryan’s, gauging reactions. 

Ryan is more guarded with his reaction. He finishes his mouthful of venison steak neatly, not making eye contact with either of them, and then sets his fork down beside his plate -- and it strikes Geoff in that moment, that strange lull where he’s not sure if Ryan is going to give them permission to stay in town and to skip turkey, that Ryan is very much the patriarch of their three-person family. It’s an odd position for him to inhabit, since Geoff is the oldest, makes the most money, and arguably does the most for the house -- but a position Ryan inhabits nonetheless. 

The pause is so long that Geoff is afraid Ryan is going to say no, or that he’s going to confess he’s already made plans to go back to Georgia to see his family for the holiday. But this, Geoff finds out in a moment, is not the issue. 

“You’re the chef, Geoff,” Ryan says, almost expressionless. “What would you suggest we serve on Thanksgiving other than turkey?”

Something changes in Michael’s posture and the air vibrates like a plucked guitar string. 

“Venison, I was thinking,” Geoff says. “I mean, if you think you’ll have time to hunt before then. If not, we can always just do turkey or I could get some --” 

Ryan interrupts him with a warm, soft laugh.

“Nobody likes turkey,” Ryan says. “If you’re OK with not pretending to like turkey, I am _certainly_ alright with that.” 

“I like turkey ok,” Michael interrupts. 

Ryan and Geoff both shoot him an incredulous look.

“Well, I like it when _you_ cook it, Geoff. I like everything you cook.” 

“Brown-noser,” Geoff says under his breath. Michael sticks his tongue out at Geoff and kicks him lightly under the table. 

“Children, please, not at the dinner table,” Ryan says. Michael and Geoff puff twin laughs and go silent. 

“As for hunting,” Ryan says, spearing another bite of rare steak and looking at it thoughtfully as he continues. “I’m sure with this much notice we can absolutely stock the pantry for the holiday. As long as you’re willing to cook for us, Geoff?” 

“Absolutely,” Geoff says. 

\---

Thanksgiving has always been kind of a throwaway holiday for Geoff. 

October is the month of Halloween with parties and themed content creation -- and then November is a lull. No parties, really, no fun themes. Just a mediocre meal to look forward to and then the long trudge to Christmastime. 

Well, mediocre isn’t really fair.

But it seems like everyone fancies themselves a cook on Thanksgiving, doesn’t it? Geoff has suffered through plenty of meals that just weren’t up to par. People who barely cooked throughout the year suddenly attempt to roast an entire turkey carcass and serve more people than normal. Of _course_ it normally turns out to be a mild culinary disaster. 

Most people insist that it’s the thought that counts, and that if you cook with love that’s all that matters. 

Geoff had felt that way too, growing up, as he suffered through his own mom’s cooking. Sawing through turkey that was far too dry one year and then choking down undercooked poultry the next, praying that none of them would wake up in the middle of the night with food poisoning. 

Yet, he had always found himself full of gratitude and warmth and familial love during the holiday when he could sit down with his mom and stepdad and whatever random family members decided to show up. There had been times growing up when money had been tight and food had been scarce -- and having a big formal meal felt satisfying, even if the mashed potatoes were runny and the turkey mealy in his mouth, even if his stomach whined and bubbled after the meal in protest. It had always been what the meal represented more than how it tasted when it came to the Ramsey dinner table of the 80s and 90s. 

So sure, cooking with lots of love in your heart is an important element of preparing a holiday dinner. But -- when you want it to taste good, Geoff thinks -- so is actual skill and experience. So is a nicely balanced palate and fresh ingredients. 

Ryan and Michael deserve so much more than their moms’ half-dried turkey and canned cranberry preserves. They deserve a feast of the highest quality -- and the more he thinks about the menu he wants to prepare for them, the more excited he is about Thanksgiving. 

For the first time in his whole life, Geoff is actually looking forward to the holiday.

\---

Ryan and Michael plan their hunt for the weekend before Thanksgiving. That way the meat will still be fresh -- and if, in the event that they can’t bring anything down, there will still be time for Geoff to go grocery shopping for a venison replacement.

The night before they leave, Geoff gives Michael a little handwritten list of what cuts he needs in order to make what he has planned.

\---

“We’re going to have to butcher this ourselves this time,” Ryan says as he steers them down the bumpy road to the house. “No just taking big hunks and letting Geoff figure out the rest.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks. He’s not exactly sad about the statement, though Ryan sounds a little annoyed. “Why’s that?” 

“Did you read that list he gave you? He’s getting really particular about cuts. He even walked me through how to take the parts he wants for short ribs.” 

“It sounded to me like we could just clean up the whole forequarter and bring it home and he’d figure out the rest,” Michael says.

Ryan raises an eyebrow at him in the dim light. 

“You don’t think a human fucking ribcage is gonna be at least a _little_ recognizable?” Ryan asks. 

Michael shakes his head, frustrated because he knows Ryan is right but he doesn’t care.

“He already _knows_ , Ryan.” 

Ryan sighs.

“I’m not having this argument again with you,” Ryan says gently. “I agree with you that on some level Geoff knows by now. But we still need to ease him into this thing.” 

It’s Michael’s turn to sigh. Ryan knows the kid is tired of waiting, tired of hearing Ryan insist that Geoff has to come to this reality on his own and that they can’t help him along any faster. It’s the only way to do it, though, and showing up with an unbutchered human forequarter doesn’t really fit in with the trail of breadcrumbs the two of them have been leaving Geoff for months.

“OK, you win,” Michael says. “So just random cuts aren’t going to work, either?”

“No,” Ryan says. “They’re not. You _know_ how excited he is about this meal, Michael. We owe it to him to get it right. I was up three hours early this morning trying to work my way through a rushed anatomy lesson.” 

And it’s true -- Ryan had been figuring out quick equivalencies between cuts of meat on a steer and cuts of meat on a man. And he’d had to do it without Google -- because that type of search history got really incriminating really fast. Instead he’d done it the old fashioned way: flipping by hand through cookbooks and the one human anatomy textbook that Geoff had seemingly forgotten high up on their bookshelf. 

“I mean… it can’t be that hard,” Michael says.

“You _really_ did not look at that list, did you,” Ryan scolds. “He even specified stuff like ‘keep the serratus ventralis in tact for short ribs’ and tells you which ribs to take.”

“So? We’ve gotten instructions for cuts before. We usually do ok.” 

“Yeah, well, people don’t have goddamn serratus ventralises, Michael,” Ryan says. “We’ve got to get him to stop watching those butcher tutorials on youtube.” 

Michael snorts a little. 

“Those things make it look so easy,” Michael says. 

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, “and zero fun.”. 

There’s a muffled sound from the very back of the SUV and then the hollow thud of a hard kick against the back door. 

They both laugh a little as they pull up to the house.

\---

When Michael and Ryan return the following morning, Geoff already has the whole kitchen set up to butcher. Geoff had planned the Thanksgiving menu so that all the two men really had to do was to separate the deer’s forequarter and ice it. 

He’d written it all down for them: 

“Need arm chuck, rib plate, skirt steak, and brisket. Separate the fore from the hind between the 12th and 13th ribs. Bring me the arm chuck for sausage too. Careful with the serratus ventralis -- leave intact.  If you split the forequarter in two, bring the whole rib plates and briskets, but leave the cartilage and the navel -- don’t need. ” 

But when they show up, everything is already separated into the cuts that he needs. He doesn’t even have to separate the ribs. One by one, the two men lay out the cuts on the counter: two nicely trimmed skirt steaks, two thin but beautifully marbled briskets, ten succulent looking short ribs cut English style with the serratus ventralis perfectly preserved in each cut. Two large chunks of arm chuck plus some fat and other random bits they’d saved and put into a plastic bag for sausage. Hell, they’d cut several small ribeyes even though Geoff hadn’t asked for them -- though it’s very smart, he realizes, that they took them as it’s the only useful part of the forequarter leftover after all the cuts he wanted. 

“Goddamn,” Geoff says, surveying the bounty of cuts. “You’ve really outdone yourselves. You know you didn’t have to go to all this trouble? I would’ve done all of this at home.” 

“Eh, we thought you had enough to do with all the cooking,” Michael says, smiling -- clearly pleased that Geoff is pleased. 

“Yeah,” Ryan chimes in. “You concentrate on working your magic and leave the butchering to us.” 

They have arrived home smelling bloodier than normal, and Geoff chalks it up to all of the work they’d done in the field preparing the cuts. The metallic animal smell doesn’t bother him like it used to, though, and in spite of himself he finds that it almost makes his mouth water now. 

It’s Pavlovian, after all. 

When the men come home smelling like blood, that’s when their food is the freshest. That’s when Ryan and Michael have the most intense sexual energy. That’s when Geoff feels the most cared for. 

So it hadn’t been long before something very deep within the ancient parts of Geoff’s consciousness had begun to associate the tinny blood smell with the satisfaction of his most basic needs: food, sex, and safety.  

It stirs in him now as he watches them move in the kitchen, working together to wrap the cuts back up until Geoff will need them. They’re both wearing all black, and Geoff wonders if there’s blood matted and stiff in their clothing or if he’s just smelling the meat or if it’s a combination of the two. 

He’d missed them even for the short time that they’d been gone, and he doesn’t hold himself back from staring openly -- watching Ryan’s hands as he presses the air out of a ziplock bag and thinking about those hands on his hips as Ryan’s mouth works around him, not worried about the crimson crust of blood he can see under Ryan’s fingernails. Geoff watches the curve of Michael’s spine under his shirt and imagines the play of muscles there, picturing running a hand down his back as Geoff fucks into him from behind. 

Ryan catches Geoff’s hungry stare. Geoff smiles but doesn’t stop. 

“Hey,” Ryan says, laying a hand across Michael’s back. “Just throw the rest of that in the fridge. We can take care of it later.” 

Michael straightens up and looks between Ryan and Geoff. Nobody needs to say much more. 

“Why don’t we take a shower,” Geoff suggests -- and he enjoys the way Ryan’s eyelids dip and his jaw tenses, Michael’s slight exhale and the smile that flits across his face.

“A little small in there for three people,” Ryan says through a smile. 

“We’ll make it work,” Geoff says. 

\---

Cooking for Thanksgiving is a multi-day affair.

Geoff starts on Monday afternoon when he gets home from work, processing the ingredients for the sausage he wants to make. He feeds the mixed bits of meat, fat, and spices into the grinder attachment on his large standing mixer, then uses a wooden muddler tool to press it all through. 

It smells like fennel and nutmeg and parsley in the kitchen and Geoff breathes it in deeply, trying to anticipate how the savory scents will come together again when he cooks the links on Thursday. He watches intently as the seemingly random ingredients combine and are extruded out as nicely variegated pink coils, punctuated with dark dried spices as they collect in the bottom of the chilled mixing dish.

His hands begin to ache as they go cold and numb, and he stops every few minutes to douse them in warm water. The meat and fat has to be as cold as possible to make sure the fat gets cut in with the lean without smearing -- just like adding cold butter to a pastry dough, Geoff thinks.

Finally, when it’s all ground, he portions out some red wine and vinegar before removing the grinder and putting the mixer paddle back onto the mixer. He lets the machine do the work of combining everything, cracking some more fresh pepper into the bowl as it goes.

Everything goes back into the freezer then to keep it cold while he cleans up the mixer and brings out the stuffer. 

He unpacks the heavy thing and runs some warm water through his casings… Geoff had briefly considered asking Ryan and Michael to take intestines from their kill -- but it had only been a fleeting whimsy. Even with how comfortable Geoff has gotten in handling the meat, the thought of cleaning the intestines to use as sausage casings had been too much for him. He’d found a butcher willing to sell him hog casings -- and that was just fine.

As Geoff sets up, he considers the idiom about not wanting to see sausage getting made. The thought behind it, he realizes, is that people would be much less fond of sausage if they saw what went into it. Not true in his own kitchen, he thinks -- although rolling the casing onto the machine is a little uncomfortably close to the sensation of rolling on a condom. Other than that, the process is fascinating and satisfying. 

He loves to watch the coil of the casing as it inflates with the filling he’s just prepared. He loves the entire process of twisting and tying the ends, of pinching and twisting each individual link and then hanging it in the kitchen for several hours to dry. Of inspecting the links and piercing any air bubbles with a needle so that the casing deflates and hugs the filling.  

It feels very old-world to stand in a kitchen full of fresh hanging, drying sausage -- like some holdover from another century. And just as Geoff has come to enjoy his new-found butchering skills, he’s come to enjoy this element of making their food as well.

\---

Geoff continues to cook throughout the week. On Tuesday, he makes an enormous, rustic sour cream pound cake which then sits under glass on a stand while Ryan and Michael eye it and beg him to slice it before Thanksgiving. 

Wednesday is the biggest cooking prep day, and Geoff leaves work early to head home.   
First, he trims the meat. Next, he chops everything he’ll need to make stuffing. 

Then he pours himself a bourbon before sitting at the counter with a pile of cranberries to begin the tedious but soothing work of sorting through the fruit. He lets his mind wander... He ought to set up a playlist for dinner tomorrow. Did they have a few bottles of the same wine he could serve with dinner? Did they actually have worcestershire sauce for homemade bloody marys, or had he imagined that? 

Michael and Ryan come home in the middle of his prep for the cranberry-pear relish -- jubilant and bubbly to be off of work for several days -- and Geoff shoos them out of the kitchen.

“Come on, are we even going to get to _see_ you this Thanksgiving?” Michael protests. 

“I’ll spend all morning with you tomorrow,” Geoff promises. “But if you watch everything, it’ll take all the fun out.” 

“Fine,” Michael says, pouting. 

Ryan and Michael go out solo for hamburgers at Geoff’s insistence. By the time they’re home with a takeout burger and fried pickles for Geoff, he’s not hungry. 

Just smelling everything cooking, tasting sauces and dishes to make sure they’re well balanced -- it’s filled him up. And he realizes, as he stares down at the cardboard takeout container filled with his favorite burger in town prepped just right, that no part of what he’s doing is about _Geoff_ enjoying tomorrow’s dinner. 

He’s looking forward to feeding Ryan and Michael. To really showing them what he’s capable of. To honoring them, in a way, for all that they do for him. 

He’s not the best, after all, at remembering to say that he loves them. He snaps at them easily when days are long. He receives gentle and reassuring touches and forgets to reciprocate them. 

When angry tears spring to Michael’s eyes, Geoff meets them with his own anger sometimes. When Ryan fixes him with an exhausted look, Geoff just stares back and knows that he himself is tired too.

But in the end he does love them -- so deeply. So much deeper than he’d ever imagined he could. 

And though he may not always say or do the right thing, maybe he can at least demonstrate it sometimes. He can, after all, cook.

\---

Michael wakes up to the muffled sound of cooking on Thanksgiving morning, finding himself curled into Ryan’s chest. Ryan is already awake, but he’s lingered there in the warm bed. 

“Morning,” Michael says, voice still a little thick with sleep. “He’s already cooking?”

Ryan smiles. 

“He’s been up for an hour,” Ryan says. “I can tell he’s trying not to make noise, but I’m surprised it didn’t wake you until now.” 

“How come you didn’t get up?” 

“Hm. I think Geoff’s trying to maintain the illusion that all of this is happening behind the scenes,” Ryan says. “We’re supposed to sleep in and then fawn over him when we ‘finally wake up.’” 

He makes air quote with one hand around the last phrase and Michael smiles. 

“Wake me back up before the parade starts,” Michael says, and he tilts his head up to give Ryan a long kiss -- morning breath be damned.

\---

They emerge from the bedroom at nine like clockwork, Michael yawning and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Ryan steps behind Geoff, pressing his body against the length of Geoff’s, holding him softly by the hips and laying his head on Geoff’s shoulder to peer over and into the pot he’s stirring.

“I thought you said you’d spend the morning with us,” Ryan says. 

“I’m about to be at a good stopping place,” Geoff says. “Don’t worry. Then I can get breakfast on.” 

“Not a chance,” Ryan says. “You go watch the parade with Michael. I can handle eggs and bacon.” 

He gives Geoff’s hips a squeeze as if to seal the matter and steps back. Geoff turns to him.

“You sure?” 

“Positive,” Ryan says. “I promise not to burn the place down. I’ll even make you guys bloody marys. Just sit down for once, Jesus.” 

Geoff can’t help but grin. He presses a chaste kiss on Ryan’s cheek and starts to untie his apron. 

\---

Ryan brings things out as they’re ready: first coffee, then bloody marys -- a Ramsey Thanksgiving tradition, Geoff had insisted many years ago -- and then a big plate of slightly-burned bacon, then scrambled eggs, and finally store-bought biscuits from a can. 

Each time Ryan returns to the living room, Geoff and Michael are in a different configuration: Michael splayed across Geoff’s lap. Michael tucked under Geoff’s arm. Geoff laying down with his head propped on Michael’s stomach. Ryan catches a bit of their conversation, Geoff making fun of the ridiculous choreographed songs in between shots of floats and Michael vehemently defending the performers, Geoff reminiscing about the year that one of the floats crashed and killed somebody and Michael insisting that that was just an urban myth. 

When Ryan joins them to sit down after 10, placing two fresh cocktails on the coffee table in front of them and wrangling a glass of orange juice for himself, Geoff is trying to talk Michael into switching the television over to reruns of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” and Michael is laying into him about having no respect for Michael’s holiday traditions.

“You say that like I’m infringing on your religion or something,” Geoff says, making room for Ryan on the couch.

“I’m from Jersey -- this shit _is_ my religion,” Michael snaps.

They eat the big breakfast slowly through the morning, all three in pajamas, switching places to lounge as they only half-watch the Macy’s parade. Geoff finally gets his way and they skip the last hour to watch the Christmas episode of “It’s Always Sunny.” 

Sitting quietly between the two of them, feeling their bodies shake as they both laugh uproariously at the stupid show, Ryan realizes how lucky he is and how happy he is that they’d given in to Geoff’s request to stay home for the holiday.

\---

When Geoff returns to the kitchen to mount his final prep for dinner, Ryan switches the TV over to a Christmas movie and grabs the paperback he’s been reading this week -- some new thing from Hanya Yanagihara. Michael feels drowsy in his post-buzz state, and he forces his way up to lie in Ryan’s lap, making himself comfortable against the man’s flannel pajama pants.

It feels supremely good to be cared for and at home with the two of them -- no relatives to worry about, nobody to entertain, no expectations. Michael drifts into a light sleep quickly, and wakes up only when Ryan shifts or turns a page too loud.

At three, Ryan rouses him though, insisting that he go change into actual clothes for dinner. Michael doesn’t protest. Even though they’re not going to leave the house today, it only seems right to get dressed up to eat the meal that Geoff has been prepping for them all week. 

Michael retreats to the bedroom to select some pants and a nice button-down. Ryan gets dressed at the same time, pulling on an ugly patterned sweater and smiling when Michael makes a face at him.

“What?” Ryan asks. “It’s festive.” 

\---

When Geoff emerges from the kitchen to find Michael and Ryan in the dining room, he looks shocked that they’d changed clothes. Geoff himself had thrown on jeans and a t-shirt in between cooking while Ryan and Michael had lounged.

“Shit, I feel underdressed at my own dinner,” he admits. 

Ryan and Michael both laugh softly. They look incredibly good dressed up like this, hair straight and posture nice. Geoff tells himself he’ll pull on a sweater, at least, before he sits down with them. 

“I hope you assholes are hungry,” Geoff says. The both nod. “There are four courses coming.” 

Michael whistles, impressed. 

“God, no wonder you’ve been cooking all week,” Michael says.

“Well, the cuts are all pretty small so… you know, I thought it would be a good time to try out a few different things.” 

“ _Definitely_ better than turkey,” Ryan says. “Thanks, Geoff.”

“Hold off on the praise until you actually taste it,” Geoff warns, turning to retreat to the kitchen. 

“Yeah right,” Michael says behind him. “Like you _ever_ serve anything that isn’t fucking incredible.” 

\---

Ryan pours them wine while they wait, and Geoff returns balancing three small plates, setting one in front of each man. He’s pulled on a black sweater over the t-shirt he’d been wearing a moment ago, but his hair is still wild from cooking all day. He looks impossibly handsome, Michael thinks, with the dark tattoos snaking down from the knit cuffs of the sweater.

“First, we have traditional venison sausage with hard cider sauce,” Geoff says as he sits down. 

The dish is plated simply: small roasted broccoli florets and shoestring-cut apples layered with rough-cut chunks of rye bread, sauce and small, plump sausages. It’s incredible from the first bite, and Michael can taste fennel and the savory meat, but at the same time something smokier.

“What’s the… smoky spice?” Michael asks.

“Chipotle pepper,” Geoff says. 

“This is amazing,” Ryan says -- and Geoff puffs visibly under the praise. 

They take their time, eating slowly and enjoying the meal, making conversation, ribbing each other. Geoff encourages them not to finish it all, reminding them of the three more courses yet to come. It’s hard for Michael to make himself stop because the sausage is the best he’s ever had -- flavorful and mild, not like the overpowering taste of store-bought sausage. 

\---

The second course is served family style, and Geoff brings out a large platter and a stack of dishes. 

“Next is a pomegranate brisket with cranberry and pear relish,” he says, waiting a moment to let them admire the dish. Ryan leans over to assess it -- two long cuts of meat thick-sliced and drizzled with a dark sauce, surrounded by the deep pink relish. When Geoff is satisfied that they’ve admired his plating, he begins to serve up a portion for each of them and they pass the food around. 

Ryan had enjoyed the sausage, but the brisket is much more his style. The meat is less processed this way, braised in pomegranate juice and red wine and broth -- tender and firm and lovely. Even as he eats, Ryan thinks about how they’d butchered the meat in the quiet, cold house in Elgin, Michael working in short strokes with the sharp knife as he separated the brisket from the rib plate. 

Ryan had acquired the meat. Michael had butchered it. And Geoff had prepared it. A perfect balance of their skills, coming together now at the dinner table. 

How lucky they are, Ryan thinks, to have Geoff who could be relied upon every time to do the product of their hunts justice. There was never a worry in the back of his mind that Geoff might ruin a piece of meat, or that a meal would be anything less than superb.  

Ryan gets so distracted with the meat that he almost forgets to take a taste of the relish. When he tries it, it’s sweet with an unexpected spicy bite of ginger. A fitting complement to the brisket. 

\---

Before the third course, Geoff brings them each out a few extra napkins. 

“You’ll want to use your hands for the next one,” Geoff says. “I take it there are no objections there?” 

“We’re a hands-on kind of crew,” Ryan says, smiling wide, and Michael nods at the statement. Given their enthusiasm for Geoff’s cooking, he had a feeling neither of them would object to a course that involved gnawing at a bone.

And so the last savory dish is short ribs -- the piece de resistance. Geoff has carefully layered shallow bowls, starting with mashed potatoes and then the ribs -- browned and then sauteed and then added to the slow cooker with a handmade sauce, minced shallots, diced celery. He stacks them precariously high atop the potatoes, garnishing each plate with twice-cooked stuffing, fried to a crisp. 

The dish -- with all of its ingredients piled high in the center -- looks like something out of a restaurant that none of them could ever get a reservation at. It looks like a magazine cover. And Geoff knows without a doubt that it tastes good, too.

Both men react accordingly when Geoff sets their dishes down in front of them. 

“Have I mentioned how much better this is than turkey?” Ryan says. “Because this is _so_ much better than turkey.” 

“Fuckin’ Gordon Ramsay over here,” Michael says. “Goddamn Geoff.” 

Geoff smiles and takes his place. 

“I feel bad to even mess this up,” Michael admits. 

“Well, _don’t,_ ” Geoff says, using his fork to knock the stuffing garnish off of his own dish. “You’re supposed to eat it -- not jerk off to it.” 

“Why not both?” Michael asks through a smile. 

“Yeah, I think I’m with Michael here,” Ryan says. “I’d take a picture of this to put on twitter but I think it would hurt my mom’s feelings that you’re such a better cook than she is.” 

“Same, honestly,” Michael says. 

“Just eat the fucking thing already,” Geoff says. “You’re gonna say all this shit and then not like it, with my luck.”

“I _highly_ doubt that,” Ryan says -- but Ryan and Michael both take up their forks then and follow Geoff’s lead. 

Michael spears some stuffing and potatoes, but Ryan goes straight for a rib. 

Michael and Geoff both watch him, then, as he holds the bone and sinks his teeth into the meat that had been slow-cooked for hours, filling the house with its savory smell. Ryan closes his eyes in pleasure at the taste and hums around the mouthful immediately. 

“This is incredible,” he says, mouth full -- and Geoff knows he’s done well because Ryan _never_ talks with his mouth full. 

Between bites, Geoff enjoys the sight of Michael and Ryan as they eat with their hands, stopping to roll up their sleeves, using the extra napkins, grinning as they tear into the ribs and unashamedly scraping teeth against bones. It’s a strange thing to be satisfied to watch, and yet here he is: silently memorizing the twin looks of satisfaction as Michael and Ryan tuck into the ribs. He’d worried that perhaps they’d be too full to enjoy the last course -- but the ribs disappear fast. 

Geoff had attempted to pace himself between breakfast and tasting every ingredient, wine and now dinner, but he’s almost uncomfortably full anyway. He knows Michael will push himself past every human limit when it comes to eating, and Ryan has a tendency to overeat and then regret it later. 

“Let’s have the last course later,” Geoff says. 

“Pound cake?” Michael asks, looking hopeful. 

“Pound cake with bourbon whipped cream,” Geoff says.

“Naturally,” Ryan says, smiling. 

“Is that ok?” Geoff asks. “Holding off, I mean. I don’t think I could eat more if I even wanted to at this point.” 

“Of course,” Ryan says. Michael shrugs but grins anyway. 

“I’ll get started cleaning up,” Michael offers. 

“No -- just, let’s sit for a second,” Geoff says. “There’s no rush.” 

“We should go around the table and say what we’re thankful for,” Ryan says, leaning back in his chair. 

“Seriously?” Geoff says, hitching an eyebrow.

“Come on, don’t be a hipster about it,” Ryan says. “It’s nice.”

“I’m not being a hipster about it -- I’m just not drunk enough to get that sentimental yet.” 

“I’ll start,” Michael says, talking over Geoff and making it clear that it’s not going to be optional. “I’m thankful for you guys because, like, no shit, right?I’m thankful for… y’know all the basics. That everyone in our families are healthy, that we have a place to live, no big disasters in Austin this year. I’m thankful I met you guys.” 

Geoff and Ryan both smile at him as he talks. 

“See Geoff? Easy. I knocked out the big ones,” Michael says. “Now you go.” 

Geoff takes a large gulp of wine. He’s no good at this stuff. 

“I’m -- uh -- I mean it’s mostly you guys. That’s mostly it. I’m so glad I found people who y’know, put up with me, who _love_ me. And not shitty people, either -- you’re the best people I know. Sometimes I think about the fact that the best two humans on earth not only live at the same time I do in the same place, but that you also liked me enough to… y’know, to _choose_ me.” 

He’s getting a little choked up and he knows it shows in his voice because Michael’s and Ryan’s expressions go soft as he rambles on. 

“I just -- I mean that’s it. There’s nothing else that even comes close to being that good. And unlikely. So that’s what I’m thankful for. I know I don’t say it often enough but… thank you for being in my life.” 

Geoff stops then and takes a deep breath. Ryan reaches across the table to put his hand on top of Geoff’s. After a second, Michael does too.

“See, I knew this was a bad idea,” Geoff says, laughing at himself a little, shaking their hands off of his and swallowing hard, not quite able to make eye contact with either of them. “You can’t ask me what I’m thankful for and think this sentimental old bitch is gonna hold it together.” 

Ryan and Michael both laugh at that -- the tension broken. 

“Gonna be rough topping that one, Ryan,” Michael says. 

“Oh, I’m not even going to try,” Ryan says. 

“So, what, you’re thankful for no lost audio this month? For lower gas prices? What bland thing did you enjoy this year?” Michael asks. 

“I’m t hankful for Geoff’s cooking, for this gigantic, delicious meal, and for the fact that we all decided to stay here for Thanksgiving,” Ryan says. 

“God, me too,” Michael says. 

“Thanks guys,” Geoff says. “I’m glad we didn’t have any guests for dinner this year, too.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Ryan says, eyebrows raised. 

Michael dissolves into laughter that borders on hysterics, and after a second, Ryan is laughing too. 

Geoff doesn’t get the joke -- but he’s just happy to be there.

**Author's Note:**

> This was all written in ONE SITTING on my first real day off in ages. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. 
> 
> Comments are always my lifeblood!!!


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